


the easiest thing in the world

by voidfins



Series: light of day [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Constance Bonacieux, Fluffy, Future romances, Maybe some angst, Multi, No editing we die like mne, office life, stubborn people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-06-20 03:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15524838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidfins/pseuds/voidfins
Summary: Short drabbles set in the light of day universe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on coming up with another longer story, but I have a few spare ideas that don't really fit in anywhere. I'm going to post them here, so this is kind of a catch all of things I don't think are quite long enough to be one shots. Multiple characters, multiple themes.

Athos was first aware that something was going on when he found d’Artagnan hiding under his desk. It was mid-afternoon Tuesday and he was clutching a cup of coffee in his hands because it had already been a long week.  


“What,” he managed to ask, “are you doing?” If this was in the name of some sort of prank, he was going to exile all three of his teammates from the building.  


“Shh,” d’Artagnan hissed, “keep your voice down. I’m hiding. Obviously.”  


“Oh, of course,” Athos agreed blandly, not decided whether he was more offended or amused that he had just been shushed by his very own rookie. “Hiding from what?”  


“Athos!” someone else snapped from behind him. He turned to see Constance, their PR representative, wearing a sensible pantsuit and fury like a cloak.  


“Yes?” He really should have just taken the afternoon off, if people were going to insist on behaving like this.  


“Where’s your so called officer? I’ve got some things I’d like to tell him about how a proper employee of the RCMP behaves himself.” She swatted at a piece of her red hair that had fallen loose from her bun.  


Athos raised an eyebrow. This could only be about yesterday. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere,” he said, leaning on the edge of the desk. “What part of his behavior do you object to exactly?” He was pretty sure he knew, but this opportunity was too good to pass up.  


“Are you serious?” Constance flung her hands in the air. “Do you know how difficult it is to be taken seriously by a herd of reporters when you have to tell them that the foot chase ended with our newest officer lassoing the suspect? They were _snickering _at me, and I’m going to have to answer smart-ass questions about it for weeks. _Weeks! _”  
____

_____ _

“At least you didn’t have to tell them the suspect got away,” Athos pointed out.  


“That would have been better,” she exclaimed. “I’ve gotten five emails today asking if the department is hosting a rodeo for a fundraiser this fall. Tell your rookie that this isn’t the wild west, and if he keeps pulling stunts like that, I’m going to feed him to the vultures.”  


“I’ll be sure he hears it,” Athos told her. Or told her back as she stormed away. Once she had turned the corner he leaned over and looked down at d’Artagnan. “Get up.”  


D’Artagnan scrambled to unfold his long limbs and stand. “In my defense,” he began, “she’s terrifying.”  


Athos snorted. “You’re not wrong. I told you that stunt was going to come back to bite you.”  


“It worked,” d’Artagnan huffed, settling into his chair.  


“Criminals are not cattle,” Athos said.  


“We should turn that into a t-shirt,” Aramis said as he and Porthos swept in. “It would be a great promotion for the rodeo.”  


D’Artagnan groaned. “You heard that?”  


“Everyone on this floor heard that,” Porthos told them. He had gotten a scone from somewhere. Athos eyed it. Why hadn’t he thought of getting a scone?  


“You should just let her yell at you,” Aramis advised. “It’ll be over with much quicker that way. She’s not one to give up.”  


“Well,” d’Artagnan said, looking in the direction Constance had gone thoughtfully, “neither am I.”  


Athos saw Porthos hand Aramis five dollars.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos gets a call in the middle of the night.

Athos didn’t like getting calls late at night. Granted, his sleep schedule was so horrible that they often didn’t wake him up, but it was like a bad omen. You didn’t want one because it set the tone for the rest of the day, which you spent dealing with whatever had waken you up in the first place.  


He was, for once, actually trying to sleep when his phone rang. He gave up—not much of a loss—and rolled over. A little thrill of fear went through him when he saw Aramis’ name on the screen.  


“What’s wrong?” he demanded, pushing the blankets off and searching for his shoes.  


“Well,” Aramis said, quite cheerfully, “my car broke down and I was hoping that you could give me a ride.”  


Athos froze, one shoe on, and echoed with more than a little disbelief: “Your car? Why are you in your car? It’s,” he glanced at the clock, “two fifteen in the morning.”  


“You were up, weren’t you?” Aramis asked.  


“Not the point,” Athos growled. He fished around for his other shoe; he wouldn’t be going back to sleep anytime soon. “Where are you?” Aramis gave him the crossroads, and he had to put the other man on speaker so he could pull it up in his GPS. “That’s not even in the city, Aramis,” he pointed out. It wasn’t even in the suburbs.  


“No, it’s not.” Aramis sounded tinny over the speaker. “Will you be coming, or should I start walking?”  


Athos sighed heavily. “Just stay where you are.” He grabbed his keys and headed out the door.

*****

Aramis was leaning against the back bumper of his car. The hood was open, and curls of steam—at least, he hoped it was steam and not smoke—were drifting up in the cool night air. Athos pulled in behind him and got out.  


“What seems to be the problem, officer?” Aramis joked.  


“I should ask you the same thing,” Athos said, walking past him and pointing a flashlight down into the depths of the engine. The car was a camaro from the late sixties in a really unfortunate shade of orange. It might have been nice, at one point, but it had sat in a barn unused for years before Aramis had found it at an auction. He’d claimed it was a steal, but Athos still thought he paid far more for it than it was worth. Some things Aramis’d had to replace out of necessity—there had been barn mice nesting in the upholstery—but mostly he’d left it as it was, garish orange paint included.  


The car, which Porthos had christened “the Fiend,” had an unfortunate habit of breaking down. Frequently, and in the most inconvenient of places, which now apparently included the early morning hours on a backroad. It was a tempermental thing, the Fiend was.  


“What are you looking for?” Aramis asked, wandering over to him.  


“An obvious solution,” Athos said, still staring at the engine. It looked...like an engine. This is why he paid someone to fix his car. And why he had bought a car that worked in the first place.  


“It’s a coolant leak,” Aramis told him. “I’ll have to get it towed.”  


“Just ask d’Artagnan,” Athos said. “He did it for Porthos when he got stuck in the mud after all that rain in the spring.” D'Artagnan's truck was huge and made for farm work. It would have no trouble getting the relatively smaller camaro where it needed to go.  


“That’s a good idea,” Aramis said, nodding.  
“Why didn’t you call him in the first place?” Athos continued, eyeing him.  


“He has an assessment today,” Aramis said. Athos harrumphed. Being considerate of one person only went so far when you were not said person.  


“He can come get it tomorrow then,” he said, slipping a ticket under the wiper blades so any patrols passing by would assume it had already been taken care of. “Let’s go.”  


Driving, Athos knew, was Aramis’ way of dealing with stress or other unwanted emotions. He didn’t like feeling stuck, so he drove for the illusion of movement. Athos wasn’t sure what was bothering him this time. It wasn’t that Aramis wasn’t talking—on the contrary, he’d been chattering Athos’ ear off for the last ten minutes. But he wasn’t saying anything of substance, just something about a funny story that one of the other officers in the precinct had told him. He wasn’t really tracking it, preferring to watch how the other man had crossed his arms protectively in front of him.  


“So what happened?” He asked when Aramis had to pause for breath. Aramis hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not to tell him the truth.  


“Adele ghosted me,” he admitted reluctantly. Athos knew, from being present while Aramis discussed his love life in the office, that meant she was refusing to answer his texts or whatever. He hadn’t dated in years—and had no intention to—so any new trends he learned about mostly through Aramis, their resident chronic dater.  


“Ah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Do you know why?” He saw Aramis shrug out of the corner of his eye.  


“We had an argument because I still follow Florence on Instagram, although that’s mostly because I just forgot to unfollow her. I assume she got more worked up about it than I realized.”  


Athos was silent. That seemed a silly thing to stop speaking to another person over, but romantic relationships had always been somewhat of a mystery to him, apparently even the one he had thought he was happy in. He knew Aramis, though, and he thought the man might be more upset about being abandoned again rather than Adele specifically.  


“Are you going to keep trying?” he asked.  


“Probably not,” Aramis said, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket. “I think it was getting to that point anyway.”  


_That’s because you’re trying with the wrong people _, Athos wanted to say. Instead, he asked: “Have you talked to Porthos?”__  


“We’ve had this conversation,” Aramis snapped, “it’s fine the way it is.”  


“I meant about a better mechanic,” Athos said mildly.  


“Oh.” The fight drained out of Aramis. “Not yet.”  


“Better do that today.” They were in front of Aramis’ apartment building now, and he had his hand on the door, poised to get out.  


“Thanks for the ride,” he said, not looking at Athos.  


“Always,” Athos said. For now this was all he could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out way angsty-er than I had anticipated, considering it was meant to be crack involving a raccoon. Whoops.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think (although can't promise) that I'm going to try to do one of these a week for awhile.
> 
> This chapter: Basically I just needed something a little fluffy for this Monday.

It had been threatening rain all morning, and d’Artagnan had a headache. He wasn’t sure if it was from the pressure of the looming clouds or the lack of sleep. It was making it hard to concentrate on the neat print of the case file in front of him. He was pretty sure he’d read the page three times, but he couldn’t have said with any certainty what was on it.  


Athos would tell him he was too stubborn for his own good and tell him to take something for it. The problem with that was that d’Artagnan was stubborn (no denying it). But he wasn’t masochistic. He’d already asked Constance for the over-the-counter painkillers she kept in her drawer. After reassuring her that it was just a headache, nothing to be concerned about, he had taken the highest recommended dose and retreated back to his desk to try to get some work done. The meds hadn’t touched the pounding pain. He was beginning to worry that it was developing into a migraine; it had been so long since he’d had one that he was totally unprepared for it. He laid his head down on his arms, trying to block out the harsh fluorescent lights that had taken on a hazy glow. It would be fine. He just needed to rest his eyes.  


“D’Artagnan?” Porthos asked from a few feet away an indeterminate amount of time later. “Are you alright?”  


“Hmm,” he responded, not raising his head. It was too much effort. He didn’t hear Porthos move, but he must have stepped closer because the next moment there was a warm hand on the back of his neck. He flinched at the unexpected contact, but at the same time was a little sad when it was removed. Everything was quiet, then, and he thought they must have decided to leave him be.  


Then Aramis was there, brushing the hair that had fallen forward out of d’Artagnan’s face. He groaned at the stronger light and tried to turn away, but Aramis wouldn’t let him.  


“Nope,” he said, nudging d’Artagnan’s shoulder, “come on, look up for me.” Aramis had been a combat medic before joining the RCMP, so d’Artagnan wasn’t surprised that Porthos had fetched him, but he desperately wished that they would just let him be miserable in peace. He raised his head a couple of inches—a monumental effort—knowing that Aramis wouldn’t leave him be until he did. The light was pretty much unbearable now, and there were black spots in his vision.  


“Headache?” Aramis asked, feeling his forehead. D’Artagnan hummed an affirmative. Even that made his teeth ache. He dropped his head back down, and Aramis let him.  


“What’s wrong?” Porthos asked.  


“Migraine, I think,” Aramis told him. “Did he say anything earlier?”  


“Mentioned his head hurt,” Porthos said, “but other than that he’s been quiet.”  


D’Artagnan wasn’t sure if he wanted to stop talking about him like he wasn’t there, or stop talking at all. He didn’t have the energy to spare to be very irritated.  


“What’s going on?” Athos asked. When had he gotten there? He was supposed to be in court all morning. “Did you murder my rookie?” Aramis shushed him and they had a mumbled conversation that he didn’t bother trying to follow. He was considering if it would be worth it to move to the floor when the group apparently came to a decision without him.  


“Come on,” Athos said, beside him, “I’m taking you home.”  


“No th’nks,” d’Artagnan mumbled. His bed sounded nice, but to get there he would have to a) be upright and b) go outside. Outside, where the sun was. If the lights in here were bad, the sun would be unbearable.  


“You can’t stay there,” Athos said, his voice low.  


“Can,” he insisted. Athos withdrew for another round of whispering. Then there was silence and he was really hoping that this time it would be permanent, but no such luck.  


“Come on,” Porthos said, tugging gently on his arm. “You have to get up for a minute.” D’Artagnan really couldn’t describe how much he definitely did not want to do that, but it was actually easier to let Porthos pull him upright—he was pretty sure he made a pathetic sound when the change in altitude somehow made the pain in his head worse—than it was to voice those thoughts.  


He didn’t end up actually going anywhere. Someone rolled his chair out of the way and then it was a controlled fall to the ground. He didn’t remember leaving a pillow or blanket on the floor, but he wasn’t about to question it, either. Porthos let go of him and he curled into the makeshift nest. Some of the tension left him when the light was blocked out from above. He could still hear people moving around, but everything was muffled now, and it was warm. He drifted until he heard a new set of footsteps stop nearby and Treville ask:  


“Why is there a blanket fort in my precinct?”  


He was summarily hushed.

*****

The next time d’Artagnan risked opening his eyes, his head still hurt but not nearly as bad as it had before. He was laying underneath his desk covered by a blanket he recognized as the one Aramis kept in his desk for summer when they cranked the air conditioning up. It was dim, and he realized that there was another blanket overhead supported by the desk and his chair. He sat halfway up. When that didn’t make anything worse, he risked lifting the blanket. From his place on the floor, he could see Athos at his own desk typing on his computer, suit jacket thrown over the back of his chair. The movement attracted his attention and he spun around.  


“Feeling better?” Athos asked. He was still keeping his voice down, and d’Artagnan was grateful for it since he felt like any loud noise would shatter his brain.  


“Marginally,” he answered. “What happened?”  


“You shaved five years off Porthos’ life, for one,” Athos said dryly. “Aramis said it was a migraine, and by the time we realized it, it would have been worse to move you. Do you get them often?”  


“No,” said d’Artagnan. It was odd to be talking to Athos from the floor, but he didn’t really feel like climbing into the chair. “I haven’t had one in years. I don’t know what brought it on.”  


“Well, let someone know next time, if you can,” Athos told him, and that was that. “Now I really am taking you home this time.”  


“I can drive myself,” d’Artagnan told him. Athos snorted and stood up, gathering his things.  


“Aramis said you would say that. He also said you would be lying.”  


“Fine,” d’Artagnan gave in. He climbed gingerly to his feet, blinking at how dark it was outside. “What time is it?”  


“Just after seven,” Athos said, handing him his coat. D’Artagnan took it and pulled it on out of habit, somewhat dazed. The last time he had looked at a clock it had been ten in the morning.  


By the time he had shuffled to the car and they had made it to his apartment building, all he wanted to do was go back to sleep. He wasn’t expecting Athos to follow him up.  


“I can get into my own apartment by myself, Athos,” he complained, unlocking the door and dropping his things on the kitchen table. He left the lights off, except the hallway one.  


“Mhmm,” hummed Athos, absorbed in texting someone and watching d’Artagnan out of the corner of his eye while leaning against the counter by the kitchen sink. D’Artagnan retrieved tylenol from the medicine cabinet over the bathroom sink. When he came out, Athos was still there.  


“You’re taking tomorrow off,” he said.  


D’Artagnan huffed. “I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”  


“Treville’s orders,” Athos countered, but paused for a moment before continuing. “It’s ok to need a break.”  


“I know,” d’Artagnan said softly. He knew, but his whole life he’d had to work has ass off to get where he wanted to be. To say horse training and showing was competitive was putting it mildly, and completing college and the RCMP academy without any support had been a constant struggle. He knew he didn’t have to run himself into the ground, but it was what he was used to. Old habits were hard to break.  


“If you forget, we’re here to remind you,” Athos said, meeting his eyes.  


“I know,” d’Artagnan said again, this time smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's basically no plot to this. I just wanted to write something with horses in it, and almost 2,000 words later...obligatory Roger appearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, disclaimer: Everything I know about horses or French comes from Google.

Athos leaned against the fence and watched as d’Artagnan soared through the air. He probably would have been more concerned if the younger agent hadn’t been clinging like a bur to the back of a horse and urging it forward to clear progressively higher jumps. He’d seen d’Artagnan concentrate before—on cases, on training, on trying to prank Aramis—but somehow none of that compared with the single-minded intensity that he displayed in the ring.  


“He’s going to break his neck,” Athos predicated.  


“No he’s not,” Porthos said amiably, nudging him. “He’s going to break every bone in his body.”  


“Would you two stop it?” Aramis demanded. “He knows what he’s doing. It’s an art.”  


“Says the man who’s been on a horse a grand total of once,” Porthos muttered.  


“I heard that!”  


Athos chose to ignore them in favor of watching d’Artagnan finish his lap.The horse he was riding was a beautiful animal, but that was as far as his decidedly not extensive knowledge about horses got him. He’d been informed by Aramis (who he suspected had been reading up on it) that it was a Hanerovian, and that the particular reddish-brown color was called chestnut. As he watched, the horse cleared the last jump in a glide and circled around to where they were standing.  


“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” d’Artagnan called to him, grinning. He was wearing an equestrian helmet, but other than that looked like he normally did off duty in jeans and a slightly faded t-shirt.  


“I am a man of my word,” Athos said. “I said I’d come.”  
“Didn’t say he’d actually get on a horse, though,” Porthos pointed out. Athos shot him a look.  


“Oh, I don’t think we’ll have a problem with that,” d’Artagnan laughed. “We’ll convert him yet.”  


“Who’s your friend?” Aramis asked, nodding at the horse.  


“Officially Monter Dans le Monde,” d’Artagnan told him, patting the horse’s neck, “but we call him Monty.”  


Monty snorted and flicked his ears backwards, as if he recognized that he was being discussed. For all Athos knew, he did. Could horses recognize words like dogs? Would they know if he accidentally insulted them?  


“Come on to the barn,” d’Artagnan said, gesturing. He kept the horse at a walk so he could keep pace with them as they made their way over to the barn, chattering the whole way about competitions Monty had competed in. When they reached the barn doors, he slid off, boots kicking up a puff of dust as he landed with a thud in the soft dirt.  


There were two people Athos had never met before waiting for them. One was an older man almost a foot shorter than d’Artagnan, with wiry grey hair and friendly crinkles around his blue eyes. The other was a girl who was probably a student, since every article of clothing she was wearing had the University of Quebec logo on it somewhere. Including her headband. She had brown hair pulled back into a braid and a somewhat startled look on her face.  


“Chris! Lily!” d’Artagnan called to them. “These are my coworkers.” They all made introductions. Chris—Christopher MacDonald—was a retired jockey that had been a friend of Alexandre d’Artagnan. Lily was indeed a student. She had said her last name, but so quietly that he hadn’t caught it. He got the feeling that she was very shy. D’Artagnan explained that Chris was overseeing the day-to-day running of the farm now, and Lily helped out after classes and on weekends. Athos abruptly remembered why they were there when Lily took Monty for a cool down walk and d’Artagnan turned to them, far too gleeful.  


“Now,” he said, handing them all helmets of their own, “come meet your friends for the afternoon.” Apparently, Chris had taken the liberty of saddling their horses for them already. There were two brown horses, one with white on its legs and one without, a grey, and a yellow one who was tossing his head restlessly. Athos avoided that one. It looked...spirited.  


“That’s Beau,” d’Artagnan said, following his careful avoidance. “He’s a little bit of a handful.” Athos eyed the horse and snorted. That, he could tell, was an understatement. The brown horse with white was Travailleur, and the other brown one was Confiance. “And this,” d’Artagnan said, rubbing the grey’s nose, “is Roger.”  


Athos blinked. “Roger? That’s not exactly in keeping with your theme.”  


D’Artagnan shrugged. “He doesn’t show or race or anything. Dad just found out how his previous owners were treating him and couldn’t let it stand. We loan him out as a therapy horse sometimes. I figured he was calm enough you wouldn’t have much of a problem with him.”  


He should have been offended that. Certainly Aramis and Porthos thought it was hilarious, if the way they were giggling like children was any indication. He glared at them out of obligation, but secretly he was relieved. It would be hard enough to just stay on the horse.  


D’Artagnan showed them how to lead the horses over to the mounting block and swing into the saddle. Aramis went eagerly. Porthos’ whole attitude was normal, for him: this is what we’re doing, so might as well enjoy it as much as possible. Athos still had his pride, so he grimly led Roger over to the block. D’Artagnan held the horse’s reins. He looked like he was fighting down a smile, but he wasn’t laughing outright. Athos stuck his foot in the stirrup and jumped, clutching the saddle for all he was worth. It wasn’t as hard to get up as it had looked like, although he felt like he was going to slide off whenever Roger shifted beneath him. D’Artagnan handed him the reins and came around to adjust the stirrups.  


“See?” He said. “Not so bad.”  


“We haven’t started moving yet,” Athos pointed out. He paused. “How do you move?” Now it was clear that d’Artagnan was making an effort not to laugh.  


“Tighten the reins just a tad to get his attention and then squeeze with your calves,” d’Artagnan told him. “He’ll follow the others no problem.”  


Athos watched him swing up onto Beau with enviable ease and lead the way out of the gate. Athos looked down at the ground, and then up at Roger’s head. “Please be civil,” he said, and pulled very slightly on the reins. Roger flicked his ears, and he figured that was about as much attention as he wanted, so he carefully applied pressure with his legs. He didn’t know if he did it right, but Roger seemed to know what was expected of him and plodded forward behind the others.  


Admittedly, it was a beautiful day. It was getting on towards the end of spring, and things were beginning to warm up. The buds on the trees had turned to new leaves, and the grass was finally starting to get some color back. They were following a trail through the woods—the woods, where d’Artagnan had been chased by armed men what felt like a lifetime ago—and it was much easier to navigate during the daylight.  


It wasn’t as hard to stay on the horse as he thought it would be, either. After a precarious first few minutes, he had gotten used to the way the horse moved. He even got brave enough to urge Roger to pull even with Porthos.  


“Look at you,” Porthos laughed, “practically an expert.”  


“I am a man of many hidden talents,” he retorted, sniffing.  


“Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Athos,” Aramis said, twisting around to look back at them.  


“How else will I get people to underestimate me?” Athos asked. “It gives me the advantage.”  


“So you’re telling me that you’ve been able to ride horses this whole time?” d’Artagnan asked, slowing Beau down so that he was beside Athos. Porthos took his place up front with Aramis. Athos gave the yellow horse a doubtful look. The ride so far had not even put a dent in his restless energy, and he didn’t look pleased to not be up front leading the way. Maybe he was imagining it, but it looked like Roger gave the other horse a disdainful look.  


“Absolutely,” Athos deadpanned. “I was just testing your knowledge of horses.”  


D’Artagnan scoffed. “Did I pass?”  


“Barely.”  


“How shall I go on,” d’Artagnan said, putting a hand to his head like the heroine of a historical drama. “I have been found wanting.” Privately, Athos was glad they all knew each other well enough to joke. He knew he wouldn’t be comfortable showing fear around strangers, and he’d seen d’Artagnan ready to fight someone for questioning his qualifications to be an officer. They all had their touchy subjects.  


After an hour or so they stopped by a small lake to stretch their legs and let the horses drink. Athos slid carefully down from Roger’s back. He didn’t know how on earth he was going to get back up there, but he’d worry about that when they came to it. Aramis walked over to him, groaning and rubbing his back.  


“I thought this was supposed to be restful,” he complained. Athos quirked an eyebrow at him and motioned to the lake.  


“It is restful,” he said.  
“Not tomorrow when I can’t pull myself out of bed,” Aramis retorted.  


Athos opened his mouth to reply, but stumbled forward when something hit his shoulder. He turned to see Roger, looking practically mournful.  


“Um,” he said eloquently. He was quite sure he’d left the horse over with his fellows.  


“Oh, don’t mind him,” d’Artagnan said, coming over. “He has a bad habit of expecting to be rewarded for the littlest things. The kids spoil him.”  


“So he’s looking for a treat?” Porthos asked.  


D’Artagnan nodded. “Honestly, he acts more like a dog than a horse. Disgraceful, really.” He shook his head in mock annoyance.  
“I don’t have a horse treat,” Athos said, perplexed. “Was I supposed to pack horse treats?”  


“He’ll be fine until we get back,” d’Artagnan said, “unless you want to share your lunch.” He went to the saddlebags on Beau and rummaged through them until he found a plastic bag full of baby carrots and handed it to Athos.  


“That explains a lot,” Porthos said. “You eat like a horse.” D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at him and handed Athos the bag.  


“Just hold your hand flat,” he instructed. Roger was watching him very closely, so h selected a carrot from the bag and held it up in offering. He grimaced when the very large teeth came close to his fingers, but Roger was lipped up the carrot gently. The hairs on his nose tickled Athos’ palm.  


Getting back up in the saddle again was a struggle. They’d sat long enough to be a little stiff, and there was no convenient mounting block, although a rock worked almost the same. It wasn’t as easy to step up onto. Athos had to adjust quickly so he didn’t fall right off the other side when d’Artagnan gave him an enthusiastic shove.  


He never would have thought it this morning, but he liked being up on Roger’s back.D’Artagnan had told him that Roger wasn’t especially tall for a horse, but it felt like he was on top of the world. He liked being able to see farther away than he would have on the ground. And he liked Roger. The other horses were all younger and more energetic, but Roger plodded steadily along looking for all the world like he was just enjoying the day. Athos could relate.  


All too soon they were back at the barn. D’Artagnan walked them through taking off and putting away the tack and brushing the horses down. Athos had saved a few carrots, and he gave them to Roger, one by one, as the others were finishing up.  


“You’re going to spoil him,” d’Artagnan said, peeking in, but he was laughing so after a guilty start Athos just huffed.  
“I am not,” he said. “Besides, you’re one to talk when you’ve got that great black beast that does nothing but lounge around.” Tran, the Friesian, snorted at him from across the aisle.  


“Fair point,” d’Artagnan conceded. “So have I traumatized you?”  


“Hardly,” Athos said. “It was actually kind of nice.”  


“Good,” d’’Artagnan said, “because Roger seems rather fond of you. It could be the carrots, though. You’ll have to come back and visit him.” Athos patted Roger’s neck gently.  


“I suppose I shall,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I think I might be working on a multi-chapter next. I have a few ideas to flesh out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The squirrel I promised you all

Porthos stepped back when d’Artagnan opened the door weilding a broom.  


“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing the tool warily. D’Artagnan looked at the broom and then back at him.  


“Sweeping?” he tried, resting it against his shoulder. Porthos was tempted to let it go—dissecting his younger teammate’s eccentricities was not why he’d stopped by—but d’Artagnan had a cagey look on his face that made his inner investigator sit up and take notice.  


“See, I would totally believe you,” he said, “except that I don’t.”  


“That’s why they pay you the big bucks,” d’Artagnan said, straight-faced. “Come in, quickly, before it gets out into the hallway.” Porthos stepped inside, the actual words only registering after the door had already been shut firmly behind him. He glanced around, ready to go right back out again, but everything looked normal, if messy. There were blankets draped over everything, and all the furniture was slightly askew, as if it had been tilted.  


“Before what gets out?” he asked warily. “Are you building a blanket fort or something?” D’Artagnan sighed so hard that Porthos was afraid he might fall over.  


“You’re going to laugh, but oh well, I guess. There’s a squirrel hiding in here.”  


Porthos blinked. That hadn’t been what he was expecting. “A squirrel? How did it get in?”  


“I forgot to close the window when I left for work, and it chewed through the screen. I don’t even know why it would want to come in! Why didn’t it stay in its tree?” He threw his hands in the air, narrowly missing Porthos with the broom.  


“And why couldn’t we let it go out the front door, again?” Porthos asked, ducking out of the way.  


“Because then it would be in the hallway,” d’Artagnan said, looking at him like he was dense, “and still in the building. I don’t think my neighbors would appreciate that.” Unfortunately, he had a point. “But,” d’Artagnan continued, brightening, “it’ll be easier to get it with two people! Here, take this.” He thrust the broom at Porthos. He looked down at it. He’d only wanted to get back the jacket he’d left in d'Artagnan's truck. How had he ended up being drafted as pest control?  


The squirrel did not want to leave. D’Artagnan’s apartment seemed pretty average as far as they came, but the squirrel must have thought it was heaven for as hard as it avoided them. They started out in the bedroom, where it was crouched underneath the bed. Porthos, with the broom, tried to prod it out from there while d’Artagnan herded it towards the window, but it slipped through their defenses and made for the kitchen. They chased it across the tops of cabinets and around the living room before it ended up back in the bedroom.  


Porthos swore under his breath. He’d chased criminals who weren’t as slippery as this rodent.  


“Alright,” d’Artagnan said, “new plan.” He explained his plan. It was a terrible plan, but at this point Porthos didn’t care. He just wanted the damned squirrel gone.  


They got into position. He was once again ready with the broom, this time to flush it out from behind the dresser. D’Artagnan, holding a thick blanket in his hands, shut the door with a click. It was suddenly very quiet, the only sounds the passing cars on the street below drifting in through the open window and the low, angry chattering of the squirrel.  


D’Artagnan gave him the signal and he poked the broom behind the dresser. The squirrel, used to this by now, bounded over the top and straight into the waiting blanket. The fabric did nothing to muffle the sound of angry squirrel, and d’Artagnan struggled to keep it wrapped up.  


“Put it out the window!” Porthos yelled. D’Artagnan stumbled over to the opening and pulled back a corner. The squirrel zoomed out of his clutched and leaped onto the branches of the oak tree that brushed up against the building, stopping ear the trunk to chatter at them some more. D’Artagnan slammed the window closed and slipped to the floor, flinging the blanket away. Porthos prodded him with the non-bristly end of the broom.  


“Did you get bit?” he asked. After that ordeal, the last thing that he wanted to deal with was an impromptu round of rabies shots.  


“No, he couldn’t get me through the blanket,” d’Artagnan panted. Porthos helped him put his apartment mostly back into order and retrieved his jacket.  


“D’Artagnan,” he said, pausing on his way out the door. The younger man looked up at him. “If you ever let another squirrel in your house, I’m locking both of you in until there’s a clear winner.” He pulled the door closed on d’Artagnan’s outraged exclamations, but he was grinning the whole way down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been kinda MIA. Not really inspired to write much, mostly due to work stress and just general life stuff. I do have some things in drafts, but I'm not sure when they'll get finished. Feel free to send in a prompt for a short drabble for this collection, and I will do my best to fulfill it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm not dead. Slowly getting back into the swing of things after Nanowrimo and then the holidays. Here's a fluffy little (not little, it got away from me) one shot to get things rolling. I also have another multi chapter almost finished. I needed a little Constagnan in my life.

“This is nice,” d’Artagnan said. He meant: this is not nice and I hate it. Constance gave him an exasperated look.  
“It’s not always like this,” she said. “Please behave yourself.”  
“I’m behaving myself perfectly,” he retorted. And he really was. It wasn’t his fault that this particular charity gala for the police benefit association was turning into a shit show. There were too many elderly socialites who were getting sloppy drunk. She had seen a woman latch onto Treville’s arm from across the room and him doing his best not to roll his eyes. There were always a few, but tonight was especially bad. Aramis was making the rounds with no problem, but Athos had disappeared some time ago, probably to avoid the same problems that Treville was having. She kept catching sight of Porthos on the edges of the room, doing his best to blend in.  
“What’s an acceptable time to turn into a pumpkin?” d’Artagnan asked. This was his first time at the annual event, and she felt a little bad that it hadn’t been the best.  
Constance glanced at her phone. “Not yet. Give it another hour or so and I think we can safely bail out.”  
“You don’t need to stay and do damage control?” he asked, looking surprised.  
“No,” she said. “All the officers have been thoroughly warned that they had better act like grown adults. So far, so good. I can’t control what the drunk rich people do.”  
He grinned. “Good. Movie night?”  
“Only if there’s pizza,” Constance told him. “I don’t know who thought seafood based hors devours were a good idea.” It vaguely smelled like a fish market. Or a disreputable Red Lobster. She was going to have to have a word with someone about the committee for next year.  
“I don’t think they’re that bad,” d’Artagnan said.  
“That’s because you will literally eat anything,” Constance said. “I saw you put cheetos on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”  
“You should actually give that a chance,” he told her. “It’s pretty good.”  
She shook her head. She would not dignify that with a response. It wasn’t even that he was a picky eater and would only eat foods a toddler would approve of. She’d seen him scarf down a meal catered from a very expensive five star restaurant and proclaim it to be “pretty decent” in the same way he did Kraft macaroni and cheese. It was infuriating.  
“I’m going to go find somewhere to lay low until we leave,” Constance said.  
“I’ll come find you in a minute. First I’m going to let Treville know we’re going to duck out soon.” He went off through the crowd, weaving his way through the throng of colorfully dressed people. She made her way in another direction, towards a hallway she knew would probably be quieter.  
“Champagne, miss?” said a waiter, popping up beside her. He had one glass left on his tray, probably trying to get rid of it so he could go back to the kitchen for another round. She took it before her brain caught up with her. Grimacing as he disappeared into the crowd. She was driving tonight.  
The hallway was just as quiet as she’d hoped. She texted d’Artagnan to let him know where to find her and leaned against a wall to wait. She actually liked dressing up in fancy clothes, since it was only a few times a year, but the heels were always the first thing to get on her nerves. She was staring down at her feet, contemplating taking them off, when d’Artagnan rounded the corner. His face lit up with a smile when he saw her, and, just like the last thousand times, it gave her a warm feeling.  
“What’s this?” he said, gesturing at her glass. “Drinking on the job?”  
“Never,” she said. “Someone handed it to me. You can have it.” She held it out to him and he threw it back all at once. Constance rolled her eyes. “I swear you’re no better than a teenager.”  
“I am much better than a teenager,” he said, setting the glass on a nearby table. “For instance, I have a steady source of income.”  
“Oh,” she said. ‘Well in that case. Did you find Treville?”  
“Couldn’t get close,” d’Artagnan said. “It’s a massacre out there. I did find Athos lurking by the stairs though. I think he plans to make his escape soon, too.”  
“I wouldn’t doubt it.” They stood in companionable silence. The sounds from the ballroom were a muted background noise. Constance scrolled through the department’s social media feed, making sure they weren’t tagged in anything too obnoxious, wincing at a few of the selfies where the participants were so obviously drunk. Maybe they would take them down the next day, after they sobered up.  
“Constance?”  
She hummed in acknowledgement, trying to decide if one particular photo had crossed the line between obnoxious and indecent.  
“Are you sure that was champagne?”  
She looked up sharply at his tone. d’Artagnan had one hand braced against the wall, but he still looked unsteady.  
“What is it?” She asked. “What’s wrong?” She had to grab at his elbow when his knees gave out and he slid down. They both ended up on the floor.  
“Think it was drugged,” he said. “Or something.”  
She panicked for three seconds before pulling herself together. It didn’t make sense, but now wasn’t the time to figure it out. She called Athos, checking d’Artagnan’s pulse as the phone rang. It was strong and steady, if a bit slow, but he was definitely out of it. He was taking deep breaths, obviously trying to stay calm.  
“Athos.”  
“I need you,” she said. “All three of you. Now.”  
He didn’t ask her to explain. “Where?”  
“A hallway, on the east side of the ballroom.” She glanced around. “There’s a statue of Aphrodite.”  
Athos hung up. She settled more comfortably on her knees beside d’Artagnan. He had his head leaned back against the wall, but he was looking at her.  
“Athos?” he managed.  
“On his way,” she assured him. “We’ll figure it out.” She frowned when he groaned. “What’s wrong?”  
“‘s embarrassing.”  
Constance sat back on her heels. “That’s not the first word that comes to my mind.” She didn’t have a chance to say anything else, because Athos rounded the corner like an avenging angel, Aramis and Porthos flanking him. Aramis went immediately to d’Artagnan’s side, nudging her out of the way to get a better angle. She stood and stepped back.  
“What happened?” Athos asked.  
“I think it was the champagne,” she said, making a concerted effort to pull her thoughts together. “There was a waiter. He offered me a glass and I took it without thinking that I drove us tonight. So I handed it to d’Artagnan.” She paused.  
“What is it?” Athos asked, sensing her hesitation.  
“It was the only glass he had,” she said, mentally kicking herself. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I thought he was heading back to the kitchens.”  
“Not your fault, Constance,” Porthos rumbled.  
“Can you describe the waiter?” Athos asked.  
Constance thought. “About my height. Blond hair. Other than that I didn’t really pay attention.”  
“That’s a start,” Athos said, nodding. “Aramis?”  
“I think he’s alright,” Aramis said, “or he will be. Of course, we’ll have to take blood samples and get them tested.” D’Artagnan groaned. Aramis patted his shoulder. “Sounds like it was probably something similar to rohypnol. Not any fun, but probably not too perilous on its own. Kind of like being extra drunk.”  
“Not the fun kind,” d’Artagnan muttered.  
“I’m more concerned with the who, why, and what the next part of the plan was,” Aramis continued pleasantly. “Since it seems that Constance was the target.”  
She wanted to scoff, but it certainly seemed like Aramis was right.  
“Porthos, you and Aramis take d’Artagnan to the emergency room to get bloodwork done. Don’t let Constance out of your sight until we know more,” Athos ordered. “I’m going to find Treville and have him send people to search for that waiter. I don’t know if he hung around, but better safe than sorry.” He spun on his heel and marched off.  
“Come on,” Aramis said, tugging at d’Artagnan’s arm. “You heard the man. Let’s go let someone poke you with needles.” With Porthos’ help, they got the younger man on his feet, although he was leaning rather heavily on Porthos. Constance tagged alongside, feeling useless at everything other than opening doors. They took a back way out, directly to the parking lot. She climbed in the back with d’Artagnan, who leaned on her shoulder. The warm weight was comforting. She was trying not to panic, but there was definitely a low key freakout on the backburner. It was unthinkable to her that she was the target of something like this. If d’Artagnan hadn’t been there...but there was also the guilt that he had been, even though she knew he would never hold it against her.  
The doctors in the emergency room moved efficiently after Aramis flashed his badge and explained what had happened. Then it was just a lot of waiting, although they were allowed to wait with d’Artagnan in a small exam room. Porthos stepped out when his phone rang.  
“It’ll be alright, Constance,” Aramis said. She looked between him and d’Artagnan, who had one arm thrown over his eyes to block out the light. “He’ll sleep it off and be fine.”  
“I know,” she said. “I just...it shouldn’t have happened at all.”  
Something in Aramis’ face darkened. “You’re right about that, although I think we may disagree on the reason. None of this is on you.”  
“No,” Porthos said, stepping back into the room. “But we think we know who is at fault.” He turned to her. “Does the name Cameron Ross ring a bell?”  
Constance frowned. It did, although it took her a moment to place it. “He’s the brother of a petty thief that was recently arrested,” she said, remembering. “He was angry about our statement about his brother. Said it was an embarrassment to the family, and wanted me to retract it. I never met him in person. He just sent a bunch of nasty emails.”  
“Well, he was our waiter,” said Porthos. “He hadn’t gotten far. Claims that he just wanted to embarrass you in return, make everyone think you got really drunk on the job.”  
“That’s stupid,” Constance said bluntly.  
“I don’t disagree,” Porthos said, shrugging. “But anyway, he’s in custody now.”  
It was a relief to hear that. And to think that it was just a bit of petty revenge, although poorly thought through. She had been afraid that her ex husband had something to do with it, as bitter as he had been about the divorce.  
“What now?” She asked.  
“We get this one home and to bed,” Porthos said, nudging d’Artagnan. “Someone will need to stay with him, just to be safe.”  
“I will,” Constance said. Although everyone had said he was fine, there was a part of her that wanted to be sure.

*****

Getting d’Artagnan home was a process that involved a lot of prodding. The doctors thought that it had been a small dose of whatever it had been, and he was already more coherent when they left the hospital, although that wasn’t saying much. She was grateful that his apartment building had an elevator, because dragging him up the stairs might have been a little much. Aramis made him take off his jacket and shoes, but he was pretty much asleep the moment he was horizontal.  
“Afraid you might be in for a boring night,” Porthos said, shaking his head fondly. “Are you sure you don’t want one of us to stay?”  
“I’ll be alright,” Constance said, finally able to take off the damned heels. Next time she was bringing a back-up pair of flats. “They just put a new season of the Great British Baking Show on Netflix.” She and d’Artagnan had been making their way through it, but she doubted he’d mind if she got ahead of him a little, under the circumstances.  
“Oh, did they?” Aramis asked. “I guess I know what I’m doing this weekend.” He and Porthos said their goodbyes and left. Constance looked at her phone. It was either very early or very late, depending on your perspective. She felt too jittery to actually sit and watch television, but there was not much else she could do. So she stole a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants from d’Artagnan’s dresser and changed out of the constricting dress and settled down to biscuit week.

*****

“Constance?”  
She let the throw blanket slide off her face. In front of her stood a very confused looking d’Artagnan, still in a dress shirt and slacks. His hair was the epitome of bedhead, but she didn’t imagine that hers was any better.  
“How are you feeling?” She asked. It was bright outside, maybe mid morning. She pushed the rest of the blanket away and got up to make coffee.  
“Like I have the worst hangover of my life,” he said, trailing her to the kitchen. “What happened?”  
Constance gave him the rundown while the coffee pot puttered away, filling the apartment with the scent of brewing coffee. She kept glancing at him, waiting for him to get angry.  
“Well that explains a few things,” he said when she was finished. “Do you think there’s a place that delivers breakfast?”  
She blinked. “That’s it?”  
“What were you expecting?” he asked, tilting his head.  
Might as well be honest. “You to be upset.”  
D’Artagnan shrugged. “I mean, I’m upset that some dunce had it out for you, but other than that it sounds like you had it handled.” He looked at her. “Are you upset?”  
“Maybe a little,” she said, “but as long as you’re alright I guess it turned out as best it could.” The tension in her chest eased as she realized that he truly was fine, and not mad at her. How had she ever imagined that he would be?  
He grinned at her, and the sun streaming through the windows had nothing on his smile. “So, breakfast?”  
“Go shower and change first,” she said, giving him a little shove. ‘It’ll make you feel better.”  
He went, kissing her cheek on his way, and she turned back to the coffee smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send me prompts for oneshots?


End file.
